Ash is not the meaning of life.
In August 2023, I learned from a mortician who was preparing my mother for cremation. The organic matter in a person's body vaporizes when burned hot enough, leaving a powdered, inorganic substance we call ash.
So what I call “mother” is actually a pile of inert minerals indistinguishable from the remains of any other person. Place the material in the ground so that plants will grow around it, but not through it.
Yet this gray means something. They were the final, heartbreakingly insufficient, tangible evidence of my mother's existence. They are a memento that helps me reflect on life before and after her death.
Ashes from trees, homes and property destroyed by the Eaton Fire in Altadena covered sidewalks, cars and anything else left outside during last week's devastating winds, I thought. My family lives a few miles from Altadena, and on the night of January 7th, the situation seemed so bad that we had to leave as well. East of us, Many houses were burnt A fire at one location is believed to have been ignited by blown embers from Altadena.
A niece in Glendale, far from the origin of the Eaton fire, but under greater threat than us, was evacuated to our home. Family, friends, old high school students – many fled. Some have lost their homes and more.
Their losses are real and incomparable to the grief we feel for the roofs over our heads and the schools our children attend. Our suffering, if you can call it that, comes from sympathy; Theirs, from the unforgiving cruelty of experience.
Still, the collective shock to Los Angeles was undeniable, especially to communities closer to Altadena and Pacific Palisades. The ash that has fallen on us for days is a physical reminder, a gracious one, of the destruction on the trail from us.
Almost two weeks later, Altadena's ash is in sidewalk crevices and other hard-to-clean places in my neighborhood. At any other time, you'd think a group of cigarette smokers didn't clean up after themselves. Or, if it's a “regular” fire deep in the mountains, it could be remnants of brush and trees blown from the Angeles National Forest. It happened During the Bobcat Fire in 2020.
This time, this fire is different.
Driving the family minivan, I used the wipers to remove dust and grime from the windshield—and then thought I'd thoughtlessly brushed off the remnants of other families' lives. Perhaps these dots were once family photos, diplomas hanging on the walls, even pages of hymnals in the burned-out church where the wife of one of my wife's colleagues was the rector.
The ashes of which houses do neighbors sweep their driveways and scatter? Could there be any remains from the classroom in Altadena where my wife and I took our children to Mrs. Henry's early parenting class? From the house on Christmas Tree Lane, two years ago, model train builders heartily entertained my children?
The wind blew this ash. As we mourn the remains of a deceased loved one, these may prompt us to consider the question: What now?
In the 1950s, my grandparents moved from the fire-ravaged hills and valleys of Glendale to a modest bungalow. Living within sight of the mountains reminded them of home in Norway. Arguably a sense of security that once allowed them to negotiate with nature The best quality of life in Los Angeles – Is it gone now? Have we dumped so much carbon into the atmosphere that what was once “too far” from nature is now “too close”?
Fortunately, this ash is not the stuff of life. Judging by the GoFundMe pages and pledges to rebuild, Altadena's heart is beating. Plans are being made for it Light up the cedars on the Christmas tree trail again as soon as possibleCommunity resilience in a show.
But I hope we will not completely erase the memory of these ashes. It will serve to remind us that even after the broader collective shock has subsided, the people in Altadena who lost so much – the real meaning of life in that community – still need our help.